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viriyanon · 3 years

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that one (or two) #jesusreference that i absolutely love from ep 15

today i officially throw all my biases away and admit that tdj's approach towards finale is super delicious. this episode is the real definition of chef kiss. making the antagonist step on the almighty protagonist an episode before finale? other-worldly. "killing" both yohan and gaon without touching any of them? show-stopping. #jesusreference throughout the episode like hansel and gretel's bread crumbs? love it. this is the first drama that successfully reels me back to my early excitement and anticipation, after those two dreadful episodes full of tug of war, uncertainty, and pessimism.

i kinda had seen it that kang yohan would not actually back down after min jungho and kim gaon's press con. (talking about min jungho i really want to know this man's background) he's always on the civilians' side, never leaving them from his consideration. although it seems like he's pulling a pontius pilate (damn, another #jesusreference), shifting the power of his decision to his people in the name of democracy, it's not entirely wrong. theoretically, it is democracy that we all wished for but couldn't achieve. for the sake of law and order and quick process. but really, it made me question myself again, who are those people to decide that progress should be quick? that the democratic process to reach a consensus must be done in several days, weeks, months? well, i'll get back to this very very later.

then at one point, during yohan's quarrel with gaon in his office, a thought flashed in my head. i used to... question myself, what kind of madness a kang yohan is? what makes his monstrosity more tolerable than jung sunah, cha kyunghee, heo jungse, and their gang, even the jukchang and madame chacha's son? yohan also manipulated people, caused casualties, beat up people, and almost shot a bus driver. even though it's for a good purpose but what is good and what is bad is always subjective to the owner's moral sense. then, it came out clear to me.

"ah.... kang yohan is not a monster. he is a child."

it appeared to me that yohan's childishness didnt stop at his endless bicker with elijah and his pouty pout whenever gaon pulled him out of his tough turtle's shell. he was trying to bring down all hell that these powerful evils created with his childlike mind.

when he said he's just providing "the quick way", and he apologized for all the accusations min jungho threw to him, and the mass didn't give up on him, it clicked. when he was mad at gaon for calling him a monster, and insisted that he's just giving "the quick way" for the poor and oppressed in this corrupted society. it freaking clicked.

kang yohan, people's guardian angel, was a child in a middle-aged man's body. look back to the day he killed the bird for the girl. he SAW fear in the girl's eyes (thats why dont be an overdramatic bitch) and immediately responded to it. he lived with fear every single day without knowing the safe solution to it. he knew how it felt to be very scared and noone stood up for you. so he "killed" the source of fear for the girl.

but then? his friends couldn't understand it. hell, even his teacher just spacedive into conclusion. i assume they didnt even call his dad to resolve the situation. cus it'd be no avail with his jackass dad. plus, self-righteous brother, ignorant maid, and psychopathic same-age maid. young yohan who was not well cared and taught to be empathetic had his character building imperfect and impeded.

im not a psychologist cant really talk abt it but i felt like kang yohan was pictured as a child who was responding to the world, well, in his child way. this reminded me of thag one verse from Matthew about having an innocence of a child. it goes like:

He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

that's why kang yohan placed himself among the poor people, giving justice to the wronged and weak ones. that's why no matter how cruel the accusations he received, he still could humbly admit it and everyone supported him. it's cus yohan was seen and depicted by the writer as a child.

he was like a little boy who hadn't known abt bureaucracy and the nook and crannies of this crooked world, encouraging him to take the dark, quicker alleyway. generally, children are innocent and simple. by opening a live court, he quickly took an action and solved a problem without much complication. therefore, his straightforward approach was more favourable than other formal courts. but some people thought he was being a barbarian.

when he asked gaon to let go soohyun to be able to finish their goal, it felt like a baby's babble. "i want this car toy, i dont want other toy! if you dont buy me this toy, i wont eat." smtg like that.

soohyun needed to be avoided bcs she didnt know anything abt yohan while yohan's just executing his plan that only gaon knew. the people surrounding yohan didnt try to understand yohan too and could possibly mislead her. with soohyun giving gaon false information abt yohan while theyre working tgt, their goal could fail as the judge had to reassure gaon over and over.

lastly, the thing that differentiate yohan and other antagonists is yohan didn't kill, even in the heat of the moment. because the "child" in him knew killing wasnt acceptable and a child usually doesn't have the mean to hurt others completely even until die, unless there are other factors. while those antagonists, their dirty works must consisted of killing one or two men. and that's why they're the real monsters. yohan was a guardian angel that has a monstrous facade.

and he couldn't be understood by the "older" people (gaon, soohyun, the maid, elijah is just another baby, min jungho, the devil gang) bcs he was simply a child who was extra careful to handpick the person he could trust his little secret to. and gaon was the only person who could do that.

#the devil judge #the devil judge metas #look at this juicy jesusreference

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 2: Accept The Fucking Offer]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug

The floor is quiet. Your patients—all except one—are sound asleep and mercifully keeping their call buttons at a distance. Patricia is camped out in the nurses’ station at the other end of the hall, chomping noisily on sunflower seeds and wailing along to Tammy Wynette on her portable radio. Queen is enjoying their fourth late-night picnic of the week. You close the door and check your watch; you have seven minutes left before your break ends.

“Let’s kill her,” Freddie suggests casually, hanging his smoldering cigarette out of the open window.

“You know that’s extremely bad for you.”

“What? Committing felonies?”

“I don’t think you’d do well in prison, Fred,” Roger says, popping a Cheeto into his mouth. “No sequined leotards. No cats.”

“Smoking,” you correct. “Smoking is extremely bad for you.”

Freddie takes a drag, exhales a fog of smoke, and grins at you beneath gleaming sunglasses. “Possibly. But darling, the aesthetic is divine. And you’ll take care of me if I get sick, won’t you? Ensure I get all the best drugs, procure new lungs for me on the black market?”

Brian rolls his eyes and nibbles a violet plum, then gestures for John to pass him a napkin as juice dribbles down his stubbled chin. John flaps the napkin just outside of Brian’s reach, yanking it away each time Brian swipes. Roger snickers, observing their exchange from his place on the floor, before eventually advising John to have mercy. Brian snatches the napkin and promptly whips John across the face with it.

“So now you have me committing felonies,” you tell Freddie with a smile.

“Keeps things spicy.” Freddie peers over at you, brow crinkled, studying you like an abstract painting. “Do you like your job, dear?”

Brian groans. “Fred, please, don’t interrogate her—”

“I’m not interrogating, I’m inquiring—!”

“It’s fine, seriously, Bri, it’s fine,” you say. Brian raises his hands in surrender. His coloring has improved, he’s gained five pounds, he’s being discharged tomorrow. Then Queen will be whisked across the Atlantic back to London...and that’s a truth you’re struggling to grasp. “I love what I do. Just not necessarily where I do it.”

Freddie nods, puffing on his cigarette. “Because of Nurse Queen of the Underworld.”

“Not just her.” You can remember being a child and worshiping at the altar of familiarity: your home, that old maroon Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple Avenue and Arcadia Street; inhaling New England autumns; burying yourself in your mother’s soft, cream-colored knit sweaters that were dusted with the scents of homemade pies and Chanel No. 5; the creaks of that uneven, tobacco-stained wood floor of your father’s study beneath your bare feet. Whatever existed outside of your comfortable, commonplace universe—whatever monsters or treasures or undiscovered ringed planets dwelled there—held no interest for you at all. You wanted to live here, die here, raise your own family here, take your children to play under the same weeping willows in the Public Green that your grandparents had met beneath. And then one day, in the purging heat of the summer after your sophomore year of college...you woke up and realized that all those comforting things suddenly felt like a cage, that your fingers were threading bars made of your family and your friends and every grain of soil in Boston. Patricia is dreadful, of course, and has been since you arrived at Massachusetts General nine months ago; but she’s not what you’re running from. “It’s this hospital, it’s this city, it’s Boston. I was born here and I cherish it, don’t get me wrong, but I want to see the world. Mountains and lakes and cathedrals and castles and...and...you know. All the rest.”

“That’s how I felt about Cornwall when I was a kid,” Roger confesses. “I’d take my little acoustic guitar out into the backyard and look up at the sky as I played and think, ‘Is this really it? Am I ever going to get beyond all this to something more?’”

“Yes, yes, well no one asked for your autobiography, blondie,” Freddie quips. Roger chuckles, entirely unoffended. “Continue, dear.”

You think before you respond. When you do speak, it comes out heavier than you mean it to, more serious, more pained, whispered, your voice splintering. “I guess I just don’t want to die without really living first.”

The boys watch you for a while: Brian poised and pondering, Freddie seeking, Roger empathetic, John very quiet. John has spoken—at the absolute most—five words to you since you’ve met him; but you know he can get chatty with Freddie or Rog on occasion, and so you’ve held out hope that you can still win him over. Now you’re almost out of time.

At last, Roger raises his beer, smiling, showing the tiny points of his canine teeth. “Cheers to that.” And it sends something through you like a one-way ticket into a brand new world.

You laugh nervously. “Okay. Wow. Enough of all that, I have to go save lives now.” You wash your hands in the sink and pull on a new pair of gloves, dodging Roger’s large, affecting eyes.

“Do you have a boyfriend, lovely Clara Barton?” Freddie asks. They know your actual name, they’ve known it since night one, but they’ve taken to referring to you as whatever famous nurses they can recall from high school.

“Freddie,” Brian admonishes.

“What, I’m just asking—”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you tell Fred. “Why, do you want a Green Card?”

“Darling, no offense, but if I was going to marry for strategic purposes I would aim for someone far older and astronomically richer. With life insurance.”

“Thanks, Freddie.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“Are you single? Since we’re all sharing our life stories.”

“I’m not,” he replies, somewhat cagily. “None of us are. Well, Brian certainly isn’t, and Deaky wasn’t last I checked, although he’s tricksy and awfully quiet about the whole affair, so I ought to confirm that at some point...how about you, Rog?”

Roger chokes on his beer and wipes his dripping nose with one fuchsia sleeve. “Uh, I, uh, yeah, yeah, uh, I’m single. Yes.”

“Oh?” Brian says, eyebrows raised. “Someone should probably inform Josephine.”

“That’s a casual thing. Super casual. Not exclusive.”

Freddie and Brian exchange a glance: an amused, smirking, what else can you expect from Roger? glance. You try to smirk at Roger too; but he shrugs guiltily, endearingly, with some mesmerizing spell of danger and innocence and wildness and beauty, angels and demons that you didn’t know could coexist without clubbing each other to death. And you mean to file this away as a warning, a reminder to keep your distance; but it feels more like blowing on embers until they leap into flames.

Bad idea, lady. Really, really, really, exorbitantly bad idea.

“Alright, I’m out. Brian, you have the call button if you need it. There’re extra cups and napkins in the cabinet and—”

You open the door. Patricia is halfway down the hallway and approaching quickly, glinting-eyed, stone-faced, keys grasped in her hand. A glimpse at your watch informs you that your break ended two minutes ago. You swing the door shut.

“Get out!” you whisper urgently, and Roger bolts for the window. He pitches his beer outside and helps John climb through the opening and drop safely to the ground below.

“Fred!” Roger hisses, waving, and he lowers Freddie out of the window next as you kick snack wrappers and empty bottles beneath Brian’s hospital bed. Bri smooths his blankets, turns off his lamp, shakes the peanuts out of his hair that John lobbed there. You rush to Roger as you hear keys rattling against the door.

“Here, I’ll help you...” Without thinking, you take his hands as he hesitates in the open window and steady him as he crawls out. You can see Freddie and John down in the darkness, reaching up to catch Roger when he falls. A sudden wave of mourning grips you. I’m never going to see them again. “Bye,” you say, without any cleverness at all. But Roger smiles like it’s the best thing he’s heard in weeks, maybe months, maybe ever. He glances to where your hands hold his.

“Bye,” he replies in that raspy, radiant voice. And then he’s gone.

You sigh shakily. You turn around. Patricia stands in the open doorway.

“Oh,” she says, grinning like a shark, almost gloating. “You are so fired.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“We’re sorry, we’re so sorry, you have no idea how—”

“It’s fine, Roger.”

You’re standing under a lamppost just beyond hospital property at 7:15 a.m. Your shift is over, your very last shift at Massachusetts General; Roger waited outside to meet you all night. There are swollen shadows beneath his eyes, his cheeks are flushed with fury and mortification, he’s edgy and pacing and chain smoking. The sun is bright and already hot, the Arctic terns cawing and swooping overhead.

“It’s not fucking fine,” he flares. “We got you fired—”

“Roger, I was miserable there. I was jaded and complacent and I felt trapped, I felt like I was standing in cement, I felt like I was suffocating and I didn’t know how to bail myself out of it or how to explain any of this to my parents. But now...thanks to Queen...I’m free. I got the shock I needed. I can move on.”

“You didn’t deserve to leave like that,” he insists menacingly. “That bitch isn’t going to write you recommendations. You were good at what you did, you were really fucking good, Brian was despondent before you took over. You deserved better.”

You shrug. “Life’s not fair, Rog.”

“That’s the truth.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and you hold out your hand. He stares at you, perplexed, but passes the cigarette. You smoke a few puffs, then give it back. Roger smiles. “I thought that was extremely bad for you.”

“Most of the best things are.”

“Well.” He shuffles his feet anxiously. “I have a proposition.”

“Yeah?”

“Since you’ve successfully untethered yourself from all your unfulfilling earthly obligations...come to London with us.”

You feel your jaw fall open, feel all the tension in your muscles unravel as the numb shock rolls through you. “Uh. I was thinking maybe the Peace Corps or joining a travel nursing agency or something.”

Roger winks and nudges your shoulder with his. “Transatlantic flights to London count as travel.”

“That’s...accurate...”

“No, seriously!” Rog presses. “Look, every time a band tours, the company hires a medic or a nurse to go with them. They stitch up busted faces, sanitize infected tattoos, prevent us from dying of alcohol poisoning, ice knocked-out teeth until we can get to a dentist, the works. We’re going to be recording as much as possible in London, but Brian will be on bed rest for most of the next few months. You can take care of him. Keep his spirits up. You’re good at that. We’ll all chip in to pay you if the company won’t, Freddie and John have already agreed to it and I know Brian will as soon as I ask. Then, when we inevitably go on tour again...you can be our travel nurse.” He grins confidently, electrifyingly, like he’s figured out all of life’s thorniest questions.

“Rog, I really appreciate the offer, but...uh...this is really too much, and I have no travel nurse experience whatsoever, and...and...look, you are all really talented, I mean that, but you have some seriously chaotic energy and I’m not sure global fame is in the cards for Queen—”

Roger interrupts you brusquely. “You said you love what you do. So you like taking care of people, right?”

“I do, yeah.”

“And you want to see the world.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think we’re fun, don’t you? Exciting? Audacious? Reckless enough to keep you busy with the fallout of frequent near-death experiences?”

“That sounds about right.”

“So...” He waggles his blond eyebrows. “Come with us.”

You look up into the mid-June sky, as blue and churning as the Boston Harbor, and try to imagine it: packing your suitcase (you really don’t need to bring all that much), digging your passport out of your jewelry box (you know exactly where it is), telling your parents that you’re jetting off to Europe the next day (they would accept it, maybe they’d even be proud; you’d finally be striking out on your own), renting some cheap little apartment in London (you have enough savings to get you started).

“Accept the offer,” Roger says.

“I really don’t think—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—I just couldn’t impose like that, I mean you’re not making any money yet and—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—You guys shouldn’t feel like you owe me this just because I happened to—”

Roger cradles your face with rough hands, gazes fixedly into your eyes, and smiles blindingly. “Love,” he says. “Accept. The fucking. Offer.”

Bad idea, terrible idea, literally the worst idea in the history of human civilization.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay, like, for real okay?”

“Yeah.” And entirely against your will, you break into a grin. This is the start of the rest of my life. This is the graveyard of familiarity.

“Yes!” Roger cheers. He takes your left hand, raises it to his lips, bites you lightly across the knuckles: some feral, ludicrously on-brand vision of Roger as a Disney hero. I’m the Lady and he’s the Tramp. I’m Sleeping Beauty and he’s the Prince who’s going to finally wake me up, even if it means slaughtering a dragon or two.

“Cute,” you say sarcastically. But, actually, it sort of is.

“Can I walk you home?” Roger asks. “You live around the corner, right? I can help you pack. Oh, wait, maybe I should shower first, I don’t want your parents to see me like this...I am a literal ashtray...my hair is ridiculous...I think I still have some eyeliner on...is the fuchsia jacket too much...?”

You watch Roger as he scrutinizes himself fretfully, his words fading out of the picture, the world becoming a silent film. You can’t look away. If Brian’s a willow tree and Freddie’s a lightning storm, what is Roger? Wildfire, you decide.

He follows you through breezy, shaded Boston streets to the house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia, with the solemn promise that he can borrow your shower and an old pair of gym shorts. You know he’ll charm your parents instantly, that they’ll fall in love with him. Everyone does.

When you look down at your left hand, there’s a vanishing silhouette of a bruise where he bit you; and if you really think about it you can feel that it still burns.

#but you can never leave #but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #queen fanfic #queen fandom #queen fic #queen #borhap #borhap fandom #roger taylor #roger taylor fic

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mybullshitsensesaretingling · 6 years

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Doughnuts

Request: Can I get a Star Trek imagine? Reader works in engineering and is close friend with Scotty. When Chekov starts shadowing Scotty he meets the reader and a friendship quickly forms because they are both chipper balls of sunshine. notices that their friendship could become something more with a nudge in the right direction. Soon the Scotsman has get the two together. Just something super silly and fluffy. - @peacebuglove

A/N: I don’t have anything to say about this story, but I feel it’s important that you all know that the kazoo was not invented in Russia, but in fact was invented in Georgia by a man named Alabama.

You pressed down on the receiver on the wall to silence the beeping.

“Live from the Alpha Quadrant, it’s the extraordinary Ensign (Y/L/N). Tactical, you’re our first and favorite caller. Talk to me,” you said, in an your best impression of a talk radio host.

“Hi. This is Ensign Melnick. Long time listener. First time caller. One of our terminals is glitching,” the officer on the other end played along.

“Well, Melnick, that certainly is quite the pickle. Have you considered turning it off and back on again?”

“I have.”

“I’ll talk to the all powerful Lieutenant Commander, see if we can’t get someone up there to help you out,” you told him.

“Thank you. Tactical out.”

“Ye do know yer crazy, right?” Scotty asked from the panel he was working on beside you.

You smiled but otherwise ignored the question. “You want me to go take care of that?”

He shook his head.

“Are you sure? I could fix it and be back before you can ‘(Y/N), you deserve a promotion’. I could even grab lunch on the way back.”

“Yer in the middle of a diagnostic,” he reminded you.

“Ok, but after I finish, I’m going to get us some lunch.”

“Ye’ll get no arguments from me.”

You started to walk back to the computer you had been at before the call, but stopped when a bright yellow shirt caught your attention. You had seen the boy in it around the engine room more and more over the past few months, usually talking to Scotty when you weren’t.

“Scotty, did you get a sidekick without telling me?” you asked.

“I haven’t gotten a new sidekick since you.”

“I like to think of myself as the protagonist of our story, thank you very much.” You looked back up to the curly haired boy who looked like he belonged on the bridge. “Do you have a stalker then?”

“What are ye goin’ on about.” He looked up and followed your gaze. “Oh. That’s just Chekov.”

“But why is he here? Not that I don’t think he should be here. He can be wherever he wants. But he’s dressed in gold, which usually implies a certain amount of not being here,” you babbled.

“Chekov!” Scotty called out getting the boy’s attention. “Come down here, lad.”

The navigator jogged down from the catwalk.

“Yes, Mister Scott?”

“Please tell (Y/N) that you are not a stalker.”

Chekov gave him a puzzled look, but did as he asked anyway, followed by, “I thought you vould be shorter.”

“Why?” you asked, suddenly very aware of your exact height.

“He always calls you ‘vee’,” Chekov told you.

“He talks about me?” You turned to Scotty. “You talk about me?”

He shrugged.

“That’s so sweet!” you grinned.

“I’d tell ye not to let it go to yer head, but it’s a tad late for that, extraordinary ensign.” He started to move past the pair of you to a computer terminal. “Why don’t you walk ‘im through yer diagnostic.”

“Vat are you running a diagnostic on?” Chekov asked.

“The graviton field generator,” you told him.

“I have not vorked vith ze graviton field generator.”

“Well, come on!” You practically bounced back to your station. Being an ensign, you rarely got to show others the ropes. “We’re still getting some residual charge readings from yesterday’s incident, so I’m running a level three diagnostic.”

“Level three? Is zat necessary?” he asked.

“If this was just a maintenance check it wouldn't be.” You tapped at the screen. “Level threes really aren't as bad as people make them out to be. I think they're fun.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

You smiled at him over your shoulder, before starting to go over the read outs. You pointed out the readings that you wouldn't get with a level one diagnostic.

“Zat one.” Chekov pointed to a dial on the wall.

“This one?” you asked pointing at a different one.

He shook his head and pointed at the first dial again. “Zat one.”

“This one?” you asked, reaching for a levor.

Scotty had you help teach Chekov one of the systems while he went to a meeting. A choice he was sure he would soon regret. You had spent most of that time messing with him or going on long tangents that only had a 50% chance of looping back to your original statement.

“No, zat-” he stopped himself. “You know vat dial I am talking about.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I think you know this system well enough. In fact I think you know the whole ship forwards and backwards. Which means it’s time for a snack break. I’m in the mood for doughnuts”

“But Mr. Scott,” he said warily.

“He’ll be fine with it if we bring him one.” Now that you had mentioned doughnuts, you were determined to get one. Taking Chekov’s hand in yours, you towed him along behind you as you headed for the lift. “You seem like a jelly filled kinda guy to me.”

He stared at your joined hands, but didn't let his shock at the act of affection show in his voice. “I love jelly filled doughnuts! Especially ze purple ones!”

Almost every engineer on duty knew when you got back. Your collective laughter came close to drowning out the sounds of the engines completely. Scotty waited at the main console for you to tell him some excuse for leaving your post. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t really care. As long as everything was in working order, he was a lot looser with his command. All he asked was that when the time came, everyone was ready to work with no questions asked.

“The kazoo was not invented in Russia,” your tone was somewhere between irritation and amusement, “Don’t take this from me, goldie.”

“And where have ye been?” Scotty asked.

“We went to get doughnuts.” You held out a plate for him, smiling brightly. “We brought you some!”

“Zis one’s creme filled.” Chekov pointed at the one on the left.

“And this one’s apple cinnamon,” you added.

“Ohh.” His fingers danced over to the plate. “Thank you.” He picked up a doughnut and stuck the edge of it in his mouth, waving you off. “Go do something.”

“We’re gonna go to the jefferies tube where the gravity's flipped to uh,” you searched your mind for a good reason for the two of you to go there.

“Run tests,” Chekov finished. Laughter still clung to the edges of his words, despite the two of you trying to seem professional.

“Yep. Uh huh. Gotta get that fixed,” you nodded.

“Aye, sure that’s what yer doin’.” He shook his head in amusement at the sight of the two of you scurrying off, giggling and joking the whole way.

“I vant to see ze mooooon,” Chekov recited, proudly.

“That was terrible,” you laughed despite yourself.

“That’s the point,” he said, waving his screwdriver at you. “That and making you smile.”

“That was almost cheesier than your jokes.” You shoved his shoulder with yours, but you couldn’t help your smile widening a bit at his comment.

He chuckled, handing you the decoupler before you had to ask for it. Over the last couple weeks, the two of you had gotten in a groove while working together. You worked in perfect harmony, laughing and joking without ever letting your work slip.

“So this is what Chekov does with his time of?” Kirk asked Scotty, who was pretending not to be watching to two of you. “Flirt with your engineers?”

“Aye, but just the one as of late,” Scotty answered.

“Really?”

The two men shared a knowing look that was interrupted by you shouting out a “Captain!” and moving to stand at attention. Chekov followed your lead, stumbling in his haste to get to his feet.

“At ease, ensigns,” Kirk ordered. “Just stopping by to see how things are going down here.”

“Zey are good, Keptain,” Chekov said.

“Better than good,” you said. “Great!”

“Yes, yes,” Chekov agreed enthusiastically. “Ze things are great!”

“That’s what I like to hear. As you were.” He nodded at you as you went back to work. “How long do you give it?”

“They'll be together before we reach Starbase 65, sir.”

“You're going to meddle, aren't you?” Kirk asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Aye, sir, I'm going to meddle.”

Sliding down to the floor, you let your head loll back against the pipe behind you. You took a deep breath and waited for the panic and chaos from the battle you had just scraped through to leave you. The absence of shouts and alarms was deafening, making the ambient sound of the engines sound twice as loud. Frantic footfalls echoed through the room, but you kept your eyes on the ceiling, wanting a few more seconds of peace.

“Are you alright?”

The familiar accent took the dread over dealing with how everything was running right out of you. You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face when a head full of curly hair came into your line of sight. It was the first time in almost a month that you hadn’t worked at his side. Without you noticing, your shift had been moved around to you were only on duty when he wasn’t, leaving him free to be in engineering.

“Did you run here all the way from the bridge?” Part of you wasn’t even surprised. He always seemed to be where he was needed.

“Yes. I vas,” he rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, “vorried about you.”

You tried to form a response but all you could do was beam at him. Luckily, that seemed to be enough for him and he sat down next to you on the floor and let out a long sigh.

“That was eventful,” you stated, still staring at the maze of tubes, pipes, and cat walks above you.

Out of your peripherals you saw Chekov nodding in agreement.

“Vant to get some doughnuts?” he asked.

“A dozen each.”

“Make it a baker's dozen.”

“With extra sprinkles!”

Scotty walked up to you, placed his hands on his hips, and looked down at the two of you. After a couple seconds he nodded. “Come on then.”

You pointed up at him, your finger following him as he started to walk away. “He’s got scotch and whiskey.”

“Much better plan,” Chekov said.

Getting up, the two of you followed him to his office. By the time the two of you were in the room, Scotty was already pouring a second glass. When finished pouring out a third, he handed you each one and lifted his up.

“To a ship that can wrassle with the worst of ‘em!”

The room filled with echoes of the sentiment and praises of the ship.

The second you had emptied your glass, you filled it back up, clinked it against Chekov’s, and yelled, “To navigators who get us out of Romulan space!”

“To not being dead!” Chekov said when he moved on to the next glass.

Scotty and you cheered and brought your drinks back to your lips. Chekov swallowed, but then something occurred to him and he got to his feet, setting his glass on the desk.

“Where ya goin’, goldie?” you asked.

“Ve need snacks. I vill be back,” he told you, walking from the office. “Do not drink too much vithout me, red.”

With a snort, Scotty took a sip. His expression told you he knew something you didn’t. He never kept secrets from you - mostly because he was terrible at lying and had a habit of blurting whatever it was out before you had the chance to ask- so whatever this was had to involve you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” His wry tone only served to make you want to push him more.

“What?” you asked again this time drawing the word out until it was almost unrecognizable.

“Just you two.”

You quirked a brow. “Us two?”

“Yer always together, laughin’, jokin’. Ye’ve got nicknames. It’s all just a little,” he moved his glass around like it would hit the word he was looking for, but it didn’t.

“A little what, Scotty?”

“Och, ye know what.”

You pursed your lips and shook your head.

“Quit actin’ like ye dinnae ken what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

You let out a puff of air. “You’re talking about us in a,” you held up a finger on either hand and moved them next to each other, “sorta way, aren’t you?”

“Aye!”

You bit your lower lip and stared into the golden liquid in your hand. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“And why not?” From his tone, you could tell he had put some thought into your relationship with Chekov.

“Because he so smart and his hair’s so curly.” You took a long drink. “Besides he doesn’t feel that way about me.”

Scotty shook his head in dismay. “The boy runs the length of the ship in five minutes for ye and ye don’t think he feels that way.”

“Well, that’s just… a really good point actually,” a small smile slowly started to spread across your face. “You really think he might?”

“Och, I more than think. I’m damn sure.”

“Huh. What’da know?” you tried to keep the giddiness from your tone, but failed.

“Ok, give it back now,” you whined as Chekov picked your report apart. All you wanted was for him to read over it, before you turned it in, but instead you were transported to an eleventh grade AP English class peer review. And he was practically cackling as you got more and more upset.

“No,” he said holding your PADD at arms length, “you asked me to read it, so let me read it.”

“I changed my mind.” You reached out for it, but he pulled it further out of reach.

“You can have it back when I have finished.” He held it up above his head, reading it at an angle that could not have been comfortable.

You stepped forward, crowding his space and reaching for your PADD again. Chekov tilted his face down to you, in doing so brushed his nose against yours. In that moment of closeness, all doubts about how he felt melted away. In fact all thoughts at all melted away, and you were left with nothing but impulse and instinct.

Dropping one of your hands to his chest, you bunched the gold fabric of his uniform up in your fist and tugged him impossibly closer. With your other arm, wrapping itself around his shoulders, you tipped your chin up and pressed you lips to his. In an instant, Chekov had a hand on your waist, keeping you as close to him as he could.

Far too soon, pulled back, sliding your hand down his arm until it reached his. You smiled at his change in expression. All traces of smugness gone.

“Can I have my PADD back now?” you asked in a softer voice than you had been using.

“Uh uh.” He dropped it on your desk and pulled you back into him. “Ve can vork on zat later.”

“Is Pavel Chekov, textbook workaholic, suggesting we procrastinate?” you teased.

“I have other priorities now.”

#chekov #chekov x reader #Pavel Chekov #chekov imagine #pavel chekov imagine #pavel chekov x reader #scotty imagine #star trek imagine #star trek imagines #chekov imagines

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wannawrite · 6 years

Text

Colourless [ pt.4 ]

who?: Wanna One’s Park Woojin

genre: 🌺🌸

type: scenario, short series

word count: 1.6K part one | part two | part three part four / ? blog navigator. • soulmate! AU • you live in a colourless world and you will until you meet your soulmate, they’re supposed to brighten up your life • one day, you can finally see in colour but….he can’t I never thought that Colourless was going to be such a popular series. Some of you guys messaged us to update it 😂 Y'all cute, I see you so…here we go. The fourth instalment of Colourless. Tumblr messed up my original format above, if you’re wondering. - Admin L

Latte or vanilla bean frappe? Chocolate or strawberry smoothie?

You wanted to cry, standing in the line for a taste of On Cloud Nine’s - the best and only sugar filled cafe on campus -wonderful treats.

It had become a tradition of some sort, every week, one of the clique members would do the snack run. This - particularly hectic - week, to get things off your mind, you volunteered. At least this would take your thoughts off certain matters for a short yet refreshing time.

The crushed piece of paper had messy scribbles of your friends’ orders, crumpled because of your nerves and the dilemma you were facing.

Coffee or smoothie? That’s the first question I should be asking myself. You were tempted to rip out a good chunk of your hair in frustration. Both drinks were equally delicious, just thinking about them was enough to make your mouth water. Both were your fixed picks, but maybe it was time to try something new. Coffee, smoothie, or should I get an iced tea? You wrinkled your nose at the thought of ice. What a great idea, a crushed ice drink in this miserably wet and cold weather. Worry began to build up when you snaked up the queue and finally, there was only one girl ahead of you. Your mind still had not been made up. The pastel walls and soft, neon sign decor did nothing to calm your nerves. From one corner, the pink flamingo statue seemed to be judging you. “Hi! Welcome to On Cloud Nine, how can I help-“ “I’ll have one of whatever she’s having,” you blurted out without thinking. “And, um, one butterfly pea tea uh, warmed…, a banana and almond muffin and one…Thai milk tea with…seventy-five percent sugar, no ice, e-exactly two teaspoons of milk…and one cinnamon stick?” Your face turned bright red after reading out that ridiculous order in public. Whatever concoction you ordered was really questionable, you were mentally re-evaluating your choice of friends. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow you up. Surprisingly, the barista had complied and added precisely one whole stick of cinnamon in the tea. It puzzled you as cinnamon in Thai milk tea did not sound exactly…fitting. Your drink was one that was much more appetising, God bless the girl in front of you who ordered hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. One sip was all it took to make you feel warm and fuzzy. Hot chocolate was energising, soulful, truly a comfort food. Just as you were packing to leave and head back to your friends, a rush of cool Autumn breeze filled the small coffee house, causing your body to unintentionally shiver. However, the real reason that a shocking bolt spread down your back was not because of the weather, but because of who entered On Cloud Nine. You could say you were on cloud negative nine or so, mood dampened by a downpour. A clique stepped into the store. Not just your own clique but another group of friends trailed behind. A familiar pair of hazel eyes bore into the sides of your face, you refused to turn your head to meet his gaze. You pursed your lips, guard raised but dread and puzzlement flooded you. Sensing your obvious shock and confusion, Elkie stepped forward to squeeze your hand encouragingly. She also took the bag of snacks away from you to settle into a nearby booth. You nearly missed the words that emitted from Woojin’s mouth since he said them in such a small voice as if he too was dreading this meeting. Yet, there was some sort of underlying, camouflaged hope and anticipation in his tone. “We need to talk.”

Oh, the irony. Despite the glittered splashed walls and fairyland decor in On Cloud Nine, the atmosphere felt like one in a horror movie, or better yet, it felt as if this scene took place in a dystopian planet, foreign from the one you knew. You took a long sip of your hot cocoa, savouring the heat and bitterness of the dark chocolate, in a twisted way, it resembled your mood. The warmth stung your tongue, the bitter aftertaste of the eighty-five percent cocoa chocolate only increased the tension, yet, you welcomed it. Maybe it was some sort of indicator to make sure you were alive, that this was reality and not some nightmare. You knew you had been putting off meeting Woojin for the longest time but there was no other way around this sticky situation. Bae Jinyoung - a classmate from chemistry - was experiencing one right across your booth. He visibly winced as Lee Daehwi attempted to rip the gigantic rainbow swirled lollipop off the edge of his best friend’s boyfriend’s fringe. Such a sweet romance. You sighed dreamily, wishing the same for you - even if your somewhat non-existent love life claimed otherwise. “Let’s set the record straight.” Jiwoo finally broke the choking silence. “Woojin, please explain your side of the story.” In reply, the dancer shrugged. “I don’t know what’s happening myself.” “She wants to know if you can see colours,” Im Youngmin elaborated, trying to keep his friend’s calmness intact. “I can’t.” The verbal confirmation shot into your heart and made it shatter into a billion crystal fragments like glass. Your grip on your mug tightened, sending a wave of déjà vu crashing over you. I can’t smash this mug, I’ll have to pay for it. Besides, hot chocolate is much better tasting than coffee. “Do you recognise… Y/N as your soulmate?” Elkie posed the other question, her lips pressed into a tight pout. She drummed her fingers on the table out of worry. Woojin’s jaw worked to form an answer but no words were projected. “I-I…I would if I could confirm it.” A shift was sensed in his mood, his eyes darkened, his tone deepened and the loudness of his charming voice increased. “How do I know you’re not playing with me right now?” He hissed, face reddening with fury. “You know this is a sensitive subject for me. Stop playing games with me!” A few curious glares were sent in his general direction but he did not exactly pay them any mind. Woojin rarely showed his temper, it came as a huge shock, but you expected him to flare up anyway. In his shoes, you would too. A part of you pitied him, he was really missing out on a great person for a soulmate. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Let’s go,” you beckoned, setting your mug back on the table and standing up to leave. Jiwoo caught your elbow before you could even take a step out of your seat. She let out an annoyed huff before tenderly shoving you into your chair again. “Listen,” she said in a low tone. “I’m not leaving until we settle this today.” Woojin opened his mouth to oppose but he quickly clamped it shut from the stares his hyungs shot him. “We can stay here until the cafe closes, I really don’t mind.” Jiwoo tapped her pen to her bottom lip, raising a brow, scanning for even the smallest sign of opposition. A sigh left Woojin’s mouth, he looked apologetic and defeated. “You know I wanted to talk,” he whispered meekly. “But I don’t think I can.” “That’s why we’re here,” Donghyun said matter-of-factly. “We’re here to facilitate the…discussion.” Youngmin nodded encouragingly, ruffling Woojin’s hair. “We know not much talking would occur if it was just both of you.” “Yeah,” Jiwoo giggled, suddenly regaining her bubbly personality. “More like a lot more lip-locking!” Her joke elicited laughs, be it embarrassed ones from yourself and your soulmate or amusing ones from your friends. The atmosphere loosened up, it felt like a fresh start. “So, hi. My name is Park Woojin, what’s yours?”

“So 6pm? I’ll meet you outside your dorm block?” you confirmed, heart nearly racing out of your chest. Woojin nodded in reply, pushing his chair out as he stood. “I’ll see you then.” He appeared cool and collected but the second he thought you were no longer able to see him, he jumped and yelled in excitement. A date was the last thing he expected, probably not an activity he would have wanted to engage in when he thought about it but somehow, Woojin was anticipating tomorrow evening. He felt energising electricity zap him all over, much like when he was dancing to his favourite songs. Maybe it’s just the soulmate pull… Perhaps it was only that factor that attracted him but either way, Woojin was finally excited about action in his depressingly almost non-existent love life - he was never really enthusiastic about dating after Naomi anyway. Knowing he had a date set up brought a new feeling, a feeling that was oddly pleasant. One that was filled with hope, that things would work out, that he would solve this puzzle. Blame all the sugar in On Cloud Nine for Woojin’s mood switch and sudden hype. His mood definitely took a turn, for better or for worse was the question. He was a tad bit afraid as it had been a long while since he had gone on a date. Then, there was all that joy that was bubbling. You were not Naomi. You were a different person, someone he could get to know. Someone who he could potentially learn to trust, who he could enjoy times together.

You were a person that could hold his future. And of course, someone who could make his universe burst into colour for the very first time.

#wanna one #wanna one scenarios #produce 101 #produce 101 scenarios #yoon jisung #ha sungwoon #hwang minhyun #ong seongwoo #kang daniel #kim jaehwan #park jihoon #park woojin #bae jinyoung #lee daehwi #lai guanlin

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cryptidwizard · 7 years

Text

A Good Kid.

@yarrayora requested a Casey Jones fic from the point of view of his fellow students and his teachers, I hope you enjoy! Contains some spoilers from tmnt 2012 season 2 and 3

“He’s a good kid!” His parents said with a sheepish smile when Casey was in preschool. The smell of rain still fresh in the air though the showers had stopped. Casey took the opportunity to play in the mud and stomp in puddles, tracking mud inside and dripping wet. The teacher rolled his eyes, “Something like that. That little Arnold Jr. of yours must be a handful.” He commented as Casey now toweled dry barreled into his parents giving them a hug. His parents laughed, and agreed. “He takes after me.” They both say in unison.

In kindergarten during Show and Tell one day, Casey stood up as straight as possible and said in a loud voice he had a big announcement. “Go on Arnold, please tell the class.” His teacher smiled warmly already learning there was no way to control Casey’s excited volume. Casey took a deep breath as if he couldn’t wait to get it out, “I’MGONNABEABIGBROTHER!” he shouted quickly and stumbling over his words. “Can you repeat that hun?” The teacher asked not quite understanding what he said. “I’M GONNA BE A BIG BROTHER! MY MOM SAYS SO, HER TUMMY IS HUGE! ITS GOT A BABY IN IT!! THEY THINK IT’S A GIRL AND SHES GONNA LOOK LIKE ME AND IM GONNA TEACH HER TO ICE SKATE!! WE’RE GONNA PLAY HOCKEY TOGETHER!!! IM GONNA BE THE BEST BIG BROTHER EVER!!!!” Casey exclaimed, practically vibrating in excitement. His teacher gave him a grin, “We are all very happy for you Arnold. I’m sure you’ll be a very good brother, though you might have to wait a few years to teach your little brother or sister how to ice skate.” Casey wilted at the news of waiting for ice skating but brightened once again at the prospect of having a little brother or sister to call his own.

Casey is a good kid and a good older brother. His mom and dad both work so he takes care of his little sister when they have to do “grownup stuff” Casey proudly shares to his classmates. “He’s a responsible kid,” Says one teacher to another during their lunch break gossip time, usually talking about students and things they tell teachers. “If a little excitable.” Another adds. “Did you hear how his mom is sick a lot? Arnold says that’s because she “helps sick people” but I’m not sure.” The gym teacher reveals. “Well nursing job or not that sounds a lot like an autoimmune disease.” The science teacher mentions. The language arts instructor looks up, “Oh my father had that, it was absolutely awful. He passed a few weeks ago.” The thought of Arnold Casey Jones Jr. disappeared from their thoughts as they offered their condolences.

“Hey Case’ what’s up?” Asked a classmate as Casey concentrated on coloring a Get Well Soon Card in second grade. “Hmm?” He asked as he looked up, “Oh hey, I’m making a card for my mom. She’s not feeling well. It’s just taking a little longer than usual to feel good again.” Casey explained somewhat glumly. “I’m sorry about that. I hope she feels better!” Says the classmate. “Thanks!” Says Casey before adding a quiet “Me too.” A teacher then notices the card and tells Casey she hopes his mom gets well soon. She doesn’t.

The condition of Mrs. Jones hasn’t improved the teachers learn. When Arnold Jr. misses two weeks of school in third grade, everyone knows what happened. The Monday after the second week, Casey enters class, eyes red and glassy and wearing an oversized jacket that teachers can only assume belonged to his mother. He doesn’t speak, he ignores words spoken to him and only pretends to do his work. This continues for a while. At first teachers are able to ignore it and place it on him grieving, but it continues still. When they regretfully have to ask his father to come in to talk about Casey’s grades his father blankly replies, “He’s a good kid.”

In fourth grade, Casey gets into his first fight. Kids can be cruel. They joke and say terrible things, they can’t comprehend the consequences. That is until someone teaches them. Casey taught them. From what the teachers gathered, two kids have been making fun of Casey for a while now. For the longest he hadn’t let it bother him, but they allegedly brought up his mother. Casey had apparently just snapped. Both kids were sporting bruises and Casey had a large scrape on his cheek. He hadn’t spoken since the fight ended aside from the words, “They said mean stuff about my mom…” Casey has sat in infuriated science. “He’s a good kid!” His father pressed, looking disheveled, his shirt incorrectly buttoned up. Arnold Sr. let out a deep sigh, “He hasn’t been handling his mother’s death well, no kid should have to go through this. He hates not being around his sister and I, like he’s scared we’re gonna leave him too. Those kids shouldn’t have been saying that stuff, Arnold shouldn’t have retaliated. Can you please let him off the hook just this once?” Casey’s father pleaded, looking desperate. The teachers pitied what was left of the Jones family, and decided if Casey apologized to the two boys, he’s be off the hook. Casey manages a muttered apology, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He stays silent on the way home.

Casey manages to stay out of trouble for the most part in fifth grade. Aside from minor arguments and a generally rambunctious behavior he is fine. He angers easier and is more protective of his friends. Especially his sister. When she started kindergarten, he would walk her to all her classes, usually causing him to be late for his own. When he found out she was being messed with by some older students, Casey was infuriated to stay the least. He threw the first punch and got the shit beaten out of him, but it guaranteed his sister wouldn’t be messed with again. Arnold Sr. shows up fifteen minutes late to the meeting, he smells of alcohol. He doesn’t try to defend Casey’s case, he doesn’t call him a good kid. Just asks “How much trouble is he in?” and is informed Casey has a week’s detention. His father vows Casey will be punished accordingly for his actions, the teacher doesn’t notice Casey’s fearful expression as he leaves with his sister and father.

On the first day of sixth grade, Casey shows up with a black eye. The teacher calls his father, he doesn’t answer. Casey says his dad is busy. He doesn’t say that his father is passed out drunk, he doesn’t say that his father is the one who punched him last night. So the teacher never knows. Casey says he was fixing the lock on his doorknob when his sister had opened the door. “Oh, Arnold I’m so sorry that happened. You should see the nurse and get some ice for that.” His teacher says with sympathy. Casey mumbles something, the teacher frowns “I’m sorry I didn’t hear that dear.” The boy looks down, “I don’t wanna go by Arnold. I wanna be called Casey.” She looks surprised, he hadn’t had a problem with that name during roll call. “Alright, Casey. Let’s get you down to the nurse.” The teacher says with a shrug. She’ll never know the Casey doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of his dad every time he’s referred to. She doesn’t know Casey learns to use his mom’s old makeup to hide bruises.

Casey gets into fights; his father was called in so much they just stop bothering to call. When they do call him, Arnold Sr. doesn’t bother to defend Casey’s actions. He just says “He’s a bad kid, he isn’t going to change. He’ll be punished accordingly.” Always smelling of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Teachers had begun to dread getting Casey in their classes. The plethora of friends Casey used to have had vanished, he scares people. Casey decides to quit on regular old ice skating. He tries out for hockey. He’s a bad kid.

Casey makes friends with people on his hockey team, some still keep their distance. Though Casey’s a natural player and a fun guy to be around. He’s still competitive, still has an anger that can’t be extinguished. To his team, he’s a fun-loving knucklehead that’s got a real angry streak on an off the ice. To teachers he’s a slacker, who only applies himself in hockey, a bad kid with bad anger issues. The only thing that seems to engage him is hockey and fighting, everything else makes him feel stupid or inadequate. So he doesn’t try, so it doesn’t hurt when he fails. Casey is told he’ll be kicked off the hockey team if he doesn’t bring up his grades. He starts to look for a tutor, but who would tutor a notoriously bad kid? Casey tells teachers that no one’s going to want to tutor him, a student craving extra credit for mysteriously missing days disagrees.

Casey hits it off with his tutor, so he says to a nosy teacher. He brags that April O’Neil is “So into him.” April rolls her eyes and laughs, Casey has a friend he finally close to. April first saw Casey as a bad kid, a no brained thug who just wants to fight. When he discovered the criminal underworld and the threat of the Kraang and dons a vigilante costume with a hockey stick; April thinks maybe he’s an okay kid who just wants to fix the city and bust a few heads. Then she truly gets to know him, sees him interacting with the turtles, protecting people he cares about and realizes he’s a good kid, a good person, a good friend who’s been dealt shitty cards in life. She just wishes other people would see the real him under his façade.

When the Kraang invade, many are unaccounted for when humans are enslaved and mutated. Casey Jones, April O’Neil, and Irma Langinstein are three of the many. Teachers and students alike can only hope the three are alive, and pray for their own safety as the mutagen splashes down upon them. The pain and feeling of bones shifting and skin morphing is unlike anything other experienced. The feeling is traumatizing and agonizing but they will forget it all soon enough. There is only serving the Kraang. There is only Kraang.

Casey and April’s trigonometry teacher’s vision clears, everything aches and smells heavily of something alien burning her nose. Above her stands Arnold Casey Jones, his expression concerned and his hand outstretched ready to pull her up. Her memories feel disjointed but they come back slowly. “Casey….Casey Jones..? Where am I? What happened?” She asks woozily and is supported by Casey before she falls. “Don’t worry about that Ma’am. I’m going to get you home safe.” Casey says in calm reassuring tone, there is a flash of light and suddenly they are standing at the entrance of her house. Her memory clears and she gasps, “You’re alive! H-how am I alive?” His teacher asks in confused panic. “The military came through, I’m just doing my part volunteering to help people get home safe.” He soothes. His trigonometry teacher nods half dazed and is helped into her home by Casey. He gives her a hug, tells her to stay safe and is out the door, gently closing it shut behind him. His trigonometry teacher seems stunned, Casey was failing her class in the months before the invasion. She always thought of him as a delinquent, yet here he is volunteering and doing his part in the efforts to help things get back to normal. What a good kid.

A student being harassed by Purple Dragons for his wallet is saved by a hockey mask wearing vigilante clutching a baseball bat. “Casey Jones?!” The teenager asks in surprise. “-Huh?” Says the vigilante before trying to deepen his voice, “Uh no, who’s that?” At the classmate’s look clearly saying he wasn’t buying it, Casey sighed and used his regular voice, “How’d you know it was me?” Casey asked. “Dude you literally shouted, NO ONE MESSES WITH CASEY JONES! While you were beating up those guys.” Casey looked a sheepish as he could while still wearing a hockey mask. “Oh, uh right.” The classmate looked around awkwardly, “Um listen Case’ I just wanted to say thanks dude. You’re actually pretty cool.” The mask wearing boy seems stunned “Yeah no problem, get home safe man.” Casey said before pulling himself up to the nearby fire escape and seemingly vanishing. “Cool.” Whispered the teenager.

Everyone in school has heard stories of students or teachers being saved by April O’Neil or Casey Jones. Sometimes in strange costumes or armor, other times in just everyday clothing. Nobody confronts them on it, or says anything to the police. They feel honor bound, grateful for what Casey and April have done for them. No one thinks of April as a weak and nerdy girl anymore, she’s strong and powerful and a force of nature all her own. No one thinks of Casey as a stupid student and angry thug, he’s protective and crafty and a good kid. He’s always been a good kid.

#tmnt #tmnt 2012 #tmnt fic #tmnt casey jones #casey jones #april o'neil #tmnt april #shut up Dirk #casey is a good dude and i love him #fic

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ramblingsandruminations · 7 years

Text

When Suicidal Ideation is the norm

All the help in the world becomes a muddy puddle of shitty affirmations, thorned gaslighting, and useless guilt. If one more person tells me "have you tried yoga/deepbreaths/vitamin B..." Ugh. Who am i kidding? This is tumblr, where you can always find somone who says exactly what you are thinking ( #omgmetho #datme #meirl ). Weve all heard the "stop giving advice and atart taking it " speech, we're all likely to have read some post about the "evils" and " abuses" of therapy and inpatient treatment, and I'll bet a paper hat, some vending machine doodad, or some shitty-yet-adorably-hipsterly prize that within 100 reblogs someone links to some news article about "Queer Youth Completes Suicide And We Think You Will Pay Us to Feel Bad About It, Don't Forget To Like, Share, and Subscribe to Trevor Project, Your Reblog Will Save A Life (And Keep Us Relevant For Our Advertisers)." Tomorrow(well, next daylight hours) my 26-year-old depressed college freshman self is going to walk into my schools coubseling office and tell them i never recieved the location for the therapist they reffered me to (true story--Honestly not avoiding treatmwnt, even if it is useless) and request a second referral. Ill sit through some lecture about self-advocacy veiled in "concerned questions" and once again be misgendered, deadnamed, and criticized for giving a fuck (note: commenters looking to describe me with the word "cuck," i see you there, good for you, let me know how that white kkknight holier than thou red pill rage fest dopamine addiction is filling the gaping void of existential dread within you). After that, there is always a small chance they'll see just how depressed i am, and faster than you can say "looney is a word based in misogynistic beliefs of womens mental health and menstrual cycles being unhealthily and unscientifically connected to the moon," ill be fielding questions which boil down to "do you want to kill yourself" and "do you have a plan." By this time in my life, i've gotten pretty used to BSing my way around psychology. All it really takes is knowing that all they can take you on is your word, and nothing else. "Do you want to kill yourself?" they ask, and i reply "*short pause, heavy, short exhale denoting weight and truth* Well, yeah. But quite frankly, suicidal ideation is a part of my everyday life- nothing i do isn't plagued with some form of "i should wrap this mouse cord aroubd my neck and die" or " i wonder if that branch is strong enough to support my weight" or "man, my head hurts, but i bet a bottle or two of ibuprofen could make it stop." For me, its not a question of wanting to die, its a matter of what do i have to live for, and ive been through enough inpatient DBT and group therapy to help me cope, using breathing techniques and self-care tips to push me through the worst of it." This is usually if not always all they need to hear. Sure, im depressed, but anything they could tell me is something i know and am already doing-i sound to them more like a patient leaving inpatient than one entering it. Our hospitals are overfilled, understaffed, prqctucally unfunded; if im "stable" im staying out of their ledger book. Occasionally, they still worry, having one of those "consciences" their peers claim to have lost when a schizophrenic patient tried to bite their ear off, and ask a follow up "but are you sure? You seem distressed, and if you need some help, we are here for you," to which all i have to do is look at them through sad, but strong eyes and say "Thank you, but i have a great support network of friends and of course, my boyfriend. He's fantastic, and one of the most important things to have happened to me. He keeps me on this side of the dirt." A small tired chuckle, and their focus diverts towards affirmations of how good it is to have support, their therapy brains running on autopilot. Then all it needs is some "active" listening, uh-huhs, and compliant assurance that ill keep working on myself to assuage them of any guilt or corncern. Maybe, though, ill tell them the truth, and let them take me in. Three hots and a cot, after all. I'll fight through my dysphoria as they ogle every nook and cranny of my malformed body trying to see if im hiding a weapon or some drugs; I'll continue to insist on a private room and remind them calmly yet firmly that no, i will *not* room with a male, and their lack of knowledge on how to treat a transgender non-binary patient is well behind on proper treatment according to WPATH, the APA, and our state govt. When i get a room, theyll say that i should take as much time as i need to get acclimated, and not worry about what the rwat of group is qorking on, and then contradict themselves within 5 minutes and say i need to go to group, theyre waiting on me. In my fresh new scrubs, ill walk in and within seconds, ill identify how th staff monitors who came in when (usually different colored scrubs based on different halves of the week, and of course, anyone likely to leave within 48 hours wearing "normal" clothes), and see the therapist or doctor talking about emotional management techniques. When i sit down, eeyes will be on me, some with looks of angey jusgemwnt, some with awe and wonder: what could THEY be in for? The group leader will ask me my name, ill state it and my pronouns (to several uncomfortable shifts in the room), and theyll let me know what they were talking about. Ill make a good effort to participate, play along, etc. Someone in the group will be desperate to control the conversation, talking more and more as if this entire experience is just for them- another person will be too dissociated to say anyrhing, despite the doctors attebpts to get them to open up. Already, the cliques will become apparent; humans are aocial creatures, after all. When we leave for the next scheduled activity (either rec or lunch, depending on the time) the docs will be watching me- im on suicide watch, and they expe t me to jump out a window or try and slit my wrists with a paperclip or something. Im not a danger in this regard; ive been threatened with solitary and ECT if i dont comply before- i am their prisoner and i must comply. Within an hour or two of being there, ill be able to notice how well funded they are (or more likely, arent.) The quality of their reading materials; the availability of puzzles abd how well taken care of they appear. Recreation will be the most bare of kindergarden activities; coloring books, maybe a tv with basic cable. A daycare for adults, abd not the cool buzzfeed articles. Someone, probably an addict, will be trying to fanangle their attendee into giving them special treatement- a snack, or an extra smoke break. I'll be sitting in a corner, smirking- the staff arent even an eigth as dumb as this person thinks, and they've seen this type before. They might get something, but itll cost them sour looks from staff and less accommodating treatment with the doctors. After the second hour, we'll have another activity (second group, rec, or maybe "outside time" if its a particularly fancy facility; while the sun will certainly be shining, our feelings of freedom will be dampened by the high fances and walls keeping us from getting away). This is usually wheb the realization sets in that im stuck here for 72 hours plus, and ill be counting them down to stave off boredom. 15-30 minutes in to this third hour, ill be called in to meet tye psychiatrist, fisrt meeting with an attendee to fill out the generic details, then 30-45 minutes of diagnosis before im told ill be put on ab antidepressant, an anxiolytic, and tramodol, a sedative marketed as "something to help me sleep" and "another antidepressant" which makes me laugh every time. Tramodol is the auppressant, the "slow down" drug which helps keep everyobe on a nice, calm level thats safer for the orderlies. Were i violent, id concur; instead, i begin to wonder how long it will take before i no longer feel persistently asleep once i leave. A couple weeks, likely. Hopefully, the food will be good, but not likely 5 star- one place ive stayed had been cooking for us in the break room, sometimes PB&J, sometimes microwaved quesadillas. Maybe theyll have more drink options than coffee, water, and sugar-free koolaid- maybe not. Likely not. Some of us will complain; most of us will know it is a fruitless endeavor. After another group or two, it will be dinner, then wrap up group. We will discuss what progress we think we made today, and be sent to bed after meds are distributed in little paper ketchup cups. Most places wont do the "cuckoos nest" tongue check, but some will, particularly the ones with kleptos and pill ODers. Lights oyt will be around 10 pm, the beds will be plasticky and the blankets thin, and sleep will only cone rhanks to our sedatives. Day two, we'll be woken early, around 6-7, by an orderly checking our blood pressure and body temp. Well all gather in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of our eyes and head to the eating area for breakfast- which loooking back will likely be the best meal of the day, not the least be ause we have access to augar and caffiene. By now, i will likely have made a friend, probably with an older woman or two, and we will enjoy surreptitiously smirking at each other when the teoublemaker patwnt tries to get an omlette or something silly. Someone will start telling fanciful stories dreamed up in the night; talk will eventually turn to who is leaving today. The orderlies will be trying to not look too interested in what we reveal to each other instead of them. They will not succeed in this. Ths first morning they will use as a test of how i deal with frustration. An older nurse will act exasperated, as though taking care of me is a curse she was tasked with. She will try to cut theough any response i give her, and rudely discount anything i try to say, as if accuaing me of lying. Knowing it is coming doesnt help it hurt less. If it overwhelms me, ill be labeled as dramatic- if not, as detached. Sluggish from the new medications, i will be treated as though i ahould not be here, and will be led aroubd more quickly than i am rady to be. I will notice that part of it is that i am beginning to realize how broken down i feel i am. Reaching out will result in canned answers and "the doctor is busy's". After all, this iant about me, and theyve seen my type before. At lunch, i will be upset by the bland meal, abd ask if they have any hot sauce, or maybethey will be out of a preferred tea, or the food will not be enough to feed me. The newcomer who arrived at morning group will share a look with the quiet patient. I will try not to notice the parallels. A therapist will ask to talk to me today. It may be a nice session, but will essebtially boil down to "let me give you ideas for solving your problems, so that your depression seems more managed." By the end of the day, they will already begin my release plan. Theyve fixed me, they are sure. I will also get my clothes back. The aurvey will be slightly different today; instead of asking on a scale of 1-10 with 1 being best abd 10 being worst how was my day, it will be the opposite: scale of 1-10 with 1 being worst and 10 being best. This way, they can track how much is me being honest, and how much is me remembering numbers to fake it. (Once, a nurse messed up so often that it was a sentence by sentence change). Later, if there is any improvement, it will be used by the hospital as signs that treatment is helping; if it gets worse, that i had a rough day and shouldnt think much of it. Bedtime will come, and i will relish it- being sedated takes a lot out of a person. When morning comes, the eggs will feel soggy and cereal with be a much better choice. A bagel will be carried into morning group and more DBT will be discussed. I will mostly be checked out; they are pulling most of their material from a 12 step program, and the leader is a student of psychology learning how to help people, but ive heard it all before, and that sense of guilt just pushes me towards suicide harder. At this point, ill feel just how desperate they are to get me out; nurses eill hint at things being the "wrong" answer with " you dont REALLY mean that, do you sweetie?" and " well, you cant keep thinking THAT way, or we'll have to keep you here longer." Boredom and longing for home will encourage me to pretend to be better, and not tell them how last night before falling asleep i stared at the vedfrane wondering if i could take it apart and form a springwire noose, or tear the blankets to make a rope. When they ask if im feeling better, it will actually mean "are you done with your timeout from reality? Have you learned how to fit in properly yet?" The meds wont really begin having a noticable effect for months- they know im lying. What they hope for is a glimmer of hope and a mountain of guilt for wanting to hurt others by hurting myself. Ill fake those, too. Still, ill be misgendered. Still, theyll blame hormones and buzzfeed rather than neurology and chemistry. After all, im well-adjusted, not at all like the Caitlyn Jenners and Wachowskis they read about on their facebooks. Its just a phase, and im just confused. I didnt try to hurt myself- nothing is *really* wrong with me. What can i do? Try and strangle myaelf, or others? That just means im lashing out, and ill get a new med regime and another 3 days, this time strapped down. Being strapped to a bed and left alone is mind-numbingly boring. If i tell them i still want to kill myaelf, theyll just nod their head and tell me it will go away soon; if i say i have a plan, rheyll keep me playing chess and reading AA papers until i apologize. Their job is not to fix me, their job is to stabilize me and make sure i dont break myself more. The fixing is my responsibility. Day four is release day. They will claim i have made improvements and have me fill out an action plan for when i feel depressed again. It will include people i can call, and ways i can push through bad feelings. It is my exit exam.when i pass, ill be set up with a therapist outside the hospital later in the week, and told how to connect with various resources. They will think i didnt know there were trans support groups. I will think that if it was just a support group i needed, i wouldnt dream of death. Neither of us will admit these things. And so, ill come back to school. Late on homework, i will have to prostrate myaelf with dictors note beggibg for forgiveness. I will get it, more due to policy than empathy, and at the end of the day, i will lay in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and contemplate which of my top three anchor spots would be the best ending to my story. Other than medical bills, nothing will have changed. Life drones on. I think i understand why death seems,so much better. In death, i can pretend there is a solution. In death, i can imagine a cure. In death, i can envision a caretaker and easier existence. It doesnt matter that death is the end of it all- i can pretend it willl be more, and my imagination can create many comforts in that void. But even death is a lie, and nothing will ever stop hurting.

#psychology #depression #inpatient #suicidal ideation #existentialism

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